


Comfort

by teacuphuman



Series: Want To Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Comfort, First Meetings, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-11
Updated: 2014-04-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 23:07:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1446163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacuphuman/pseuds/teacuphuman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Here is a bonus piece that tells the story of how John and Sherlock met as children.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a bonus piece that tells the story of how John and Sherlock met as children.

John hurt. He couldn’t remember ever having hurt quite like this before in his short life. His Grandfather was his very favourite person and the man in that hospital bed was not Granddad. He was a shriveled, sallow impostor who didn’t even remember John’s name. His mother had brought him here to say goodbye to man who had always been John’s saving grace. His safe harbor when he got so upset he couldn’t see straight for the tears in his eyes. It would give him closure, she’d said. 

John felt cheated. The stranger wasting away in that room didn’t even look like Granddad. Where was the sharpness in his eyes and the quirk to his mouth John had always longed to have turned on him? The man couldn’t even speak, probably couldn’t hear them either. Harry had whispered to him in the car on the way there that she’d overheard Mom telling Uncle Charles that Granddad was in a coma and had no clue what was going on around him.

No sight, no sound, no life left in his body. John wasn’t here to say goodbye, he was here to mourn. Granddad was gone.

He’d snuck out of the room as soon as he could. Harry had been crying in the chair while Mom sat on the bed cheerily chatting away to the imposter laying there about the new paint she’d bought for the kitchen. As if he could hear her. As if he’d care if he could.

John had wandered the halls of the palliative ward, watching other families trying to cope with the loss happening around them. They were hollow eyed and crumpled in a way he’d never seen before. Passing the reflective doors of the elevator he was startled to realize he looked much the same. He’d run then, past the image of that lost boy, as far as he could before he collapsed, sobbing and panting into a dark space. 

He could still hear the life and death of the hospital buzzing around him but it was muted and easier to catch his breath here. The hallways was mostly dark; just a flickering fluorescent light a few doors down, casting moving shadows over the extra beds and IV poles left abandoned in the corridor. 

He was sitting in the empty space between two doors when he heard the footsteps. They were quiet but determined, stalking their way toward his hiding spot. John held his breath and scrunched his eyes; curling himself into a ball and hoping whoever it was wouldn’t notice him as they approached. The footsteps passed him but before he could relax they stopped and shuffled back. John stayed still and silent while the owner of the footsteps stood in front of him. Seconds past and John felt his lungs start to protest the lack of oxygen he was supplying.

A heavy sigh was issued from above but still John ignored the trespasser. Feet shuffled and clothing brushed with movement.

“You’re turning blue, you should probably breath now.” An impatient voice told him, the spirit of which broke John’s resolve and allowed his eyes to open as he took a few gasping breaths.

“How long?” The boy in front of him asked.

John stared up at him stupidly. The boy looked to be about his age, pale and clear eyed. He was dressed in pleated dress shorts, the kind John’s Mom made him wear to church at Easter. His white oxford shirt was stained with dirt and grass. The left sleeve was rolled to the boy’s elbow while the right hung in shreds around the bulk of a triangle bandage holding the arm snugly against a thin chest. The boy’s hair was a mass of disordered curls floating over his ears. John had never seen anyone look more like they’d stepped from the pages of an adventure book.

“Are you slow?” The boy asked, tilting his head to study John.

“No, are you?” John snapped, feeling his face heat up. He could feel the wetness on his cheeks from crying but was too embarrassed to wipe it away.

“Not even close,” the boy said. “How long?”

“How long what?”

“You’re breath, how long were you holding it?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t counting.” John told him, confused.

“Then why do it? That seems a waste of time and energy.”

“What do you want?” John demanded, finally brushing his hands across his face. 

The boy paused, seeming to give the question serious consideration.

“Right now I want to hide,” he said honestly.

John stared at him for a moment before shuffling over to make room for the boy to sit down. He looked surprised but clutched the injured arm to him as he awkwardly scrambled to sit  
down.

“What happened?” John asked, pointing to the arm.

“Got bored,” the boy told him.

“So you hurt yourself?” John gaped.

“Don’t be stupid, I fell out of a tree.” The boy scoffed.

“Oh,” John glanced down. “I did that once. Didn’t hurt myself though.”

“How fortunate for you,” the boy rolled his eyes. “Your mother must be so proud.”

John felt his face flame and he clenched his fists.

“She said I was an idiot to have climbed it in the first place.” He admitted softly. 

The boy turned to study him once again, then tossed his head and scoffed.

“We’re children. We’re supposed to climb trees. What do they expect?” He shrugged, wincing when it jostled the arm.

“Does it hurt very much? I’ve never broken a bone.” John asked, interested despite himself.

“Unfortunately,” the boy sighed.

“Greenstick?” John asked. 

The boy blinked at him before his lips curved in to small smile.

“I thought you’d never broken anything.”

“I haven’t, I just like that stuff. I’m going to be a doctor.” John told him proudly.

“You mean you want to be a doctor.”

“No, I mean I am going to be one.” John said firmly.

The boy pulled the knotted ends of the bandage over his head and slipped it off his arm.

“Tell me more then, Dr-“

“Watson. John Watson.” John grinned.

“Sherlock Holmes. Now, tell me more,” he held the arm out.

John licked his lips and reached out to support the injured arm. Gingerly he pressed on the darkened skin just above the outer side of the wrist, making the boy wince again.

“Sorry,” he muttered, absorbed in the injury as he rotated the arm. “Lots of bruising, probably not greenstick then.” 

“I didn’t think so either,” the boy told him, looking affronted when John shushed him.

“You landed on it, obviously, but you’re not heavy enough for it to be a crush injury. They’d never make you wait for treatment if it was anyway. Radius seems fine. I’d say minimal displayed  
fracture of the distal ulna. Probably won’t need reduction, that’s when they put in screws to hold everything together.” John told him.

“I know what it is,” the boy snapped.

“You’ll probably have a below-elbow cast for about six weeks.” John finished, smiling proudly.

“Hmm,” the boy frowned at him.

“What?” John said defensively.

“How old are you?”

“I’ll be eleven in three months. How old are you?”

“Most ten year olds don’t know that much about fractures,” he said thoughtfully.

“I’m not most ten year olds.” John told him and the boy smiled.

“No, you’re not.”


End file.
